Five Part Plan
by starktrek
Summary: Insanity is a five part plan. This is a story about Anderson post-Reichenbach. I hope you enjoy it!


"_It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane"_

Philip K. Dick

_Part One_

Anderson woke to the sound of his cell ringing. Groaning, he pulled his pillow over his head in attempt to drown out the noise. This was his day off. All he wanted to do was sleep.

When the ringing subsided Anderson sighed happily, turning in bed and tugging his blankets over his body.

_Ring, ring._

"What!" He sprung from bed and yelled into the cell. The person on the other line was silent. The only sound he could hear was their heavy breathing.

"Who the hell is this?" He barked, irritation starting to boil up from inside him.

"He's dead."

Anderson recognized Sally's voice immediately, "Who's dead?"

More silence. Climbing out of bed, Anderson paced around his bedroom, running his hands through his hair. This was the last thing he wanted to do today. He could care less about some dead man. He wasn't on duty. This was someones else's problem.

"He committed suicide yesterday" She seemed exasperated, like she had no idea how to go about telling Anderson what had happened.

"_Who?_"

The words tumbled out of her mouth so fast he almost didn't register she'd said anything.

"Sherlock."

Then the line went dead.

/

_Part Two_

John Watson was angry. So angry you could almost feel it emitting off him. His eyes were burning and he whole body was shaking. His voice swallowed up the space around them. Anderson crouched on the ground, nursing his broken nose.

When the doctor had marched his way into Scotland Yard everyone went silent. They watched with nervous stares as he made his way to Lestrade's office, slamming the door behind him with more force than necessary. Not a single person tried to stop him.

Anderson slouched in his chair, trying to become invisible. His mind was in shambles, Sally's voice ringing in his ears.

From the DI's office came loud crashing noises. Anderson closed his eyes and prayed to God John would not notice. He couldn't face what he'd say.

"You bastard!"

Anderson leapt from chair and turned, greeting a manic John Watson. He put his hands in the air, "Wait John please–"

But before he could speak John's fist was colliding with his face. He could feel the crunch of his nose against John's knuckles as he fell back. Everything went black for a second as he hit the floor with a loud thud. As John recoiled Lestrade came up from behind him, pulling him back.

"It's your fault, _its your fault_!" He screamed from Lestrade's arms.

_/_

_Part Three_

All Anderson could hear was the pounding of his heart in his ears. He was standing in the middle of the road staring around at the most peculiar sight. Everything as frozen. People were paralyzed and the birds hung in the air like ornaments on a tree.

The silence was painful.

Above him was St. Bart's, which looked more like a lopsided skyscraper than a hospital. Anderson had the sudden urge to climb the building. He reached for the handle but the door was one step ahead, swinging open and revealing a never-ending staircase.

When he stepped out onto the roof he was greeted by none other than Sherlock Holmes. His back was to him but there was no doubting it was him. He was bobbing over the edge of the hospital, with one wrong step he'd plummet to his death. Anderson's eyes widened in shock.

Without even giving his predicament another thought he rushed to the detective. There was still time. He could right the wrong he'd done. He could save Sherlock.

But when his hand touched Sherlock's jacket it had the opposite effect he wanted it to have. Sherlock let out a gasp as he slipped and fell.

Anderson screamed.

"Phil, Phil, hey wake up! Wake up!"

Anderson was suddenly looking up at his wife, who had her small hands on either side of his face. Terror was etched in her features as she looked down at him. Anderson tried to speak but the words died in his throat and in its place came a horrifying moan. His clothes were sticking to his skin from sweat and he was trembling.

"It was just a dream Phil, it was just a dream."

Sobs bubbled up and poured over.

_/_

_Part Four_

Anderson was surrounded by the dead eyes of stone statues. They looked down at him as if he was nothing more than an ant. It felt daunting, eerie.

It was depressing.

Sherlock's headstone was engulfed in the shadow of a huge oak tree, growing about ten feet from the grave. Every time Anderson visited his grave there would be freshly cut flowers in lovely bouquets. Sometimes there would even be letter. Was it John taking the time to decorate the dead detectives grave? Anderson couldn't be sure. He had made it his mission to stay as far away from John Watson as possible.

Often Anderson would just stand staring down at the headstone like any minute Sherlock was going to climb out of the ground and yelled _surprise_.

But Sherlock was dead. It wasn't any trick.

Sherlock killed himself.

Anderson never talked to the stone. He never knew what to say.

At least until today.

"I never thought you'd kill yourself," He began, "I just wanted...I just…"

He scrambled for the right set of words but he was lost. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. His heart was beating against his chest so hard that he thought it'd burst.

What to say, what to say.

"I wanted to embarrass you, make you feel like I did. You were always such an arrogant prick…"

The grave didn't respond.

"I didn't want _this._"

The stone statues were judging him.

"God I'm so sorry."

_/_

_Part Five_

Anderson twisted the golden band around his finger. In front of him were a set of papers.

Divorce papers.

He knew it was only a matter of time. He was digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole and she couldn't pull him out. The pity died and was replaced with anger. Eventually the fighting began. The arguments and the yelling. So much yelling.

The fights would always end with one of them marching out, leaving the other to wallow in the aftermath. There were no more soothing words or gentle touches. Just sharp tongues and hard shoves.

Anderson didn't blame her for any of this. He was a mess. But it still hurt. He didn't want to lose her.

He signed his name over and over on the dotted lines. This was all so final.

_/_

_Part ?_

His apartment was a sea of newspapers. They were under tables and desks, on top of chairs and piled on his bed. Maps and cases of all sorts were pinned on the walls. It was enough to make anyone's head spin.

It was chaotic. It was madness.

Underneath a huge map of the world Anderson crouched over his laptop, typing away fervently. From the other room he could hear his cell go off.

_Ring, ring._

Anderson ignored the unwanted noise.

For weeks now he had not had a proper sleep. Instead he busied himself with the wild theories of how the great Sherlock Holmes had faked his death.

His eyes burned from staring at his laptop screen for so long and his back ached. The clothes he was wearing were two days old and stuck to his body like tape. He hadn't left his apartment in at least a week. Coffee had became his fuel.

The cell cut to voicemail.

_"Hey Anderson, just checking up. Haven't heard from you in weeks, I just wanted to know when you'd be coming back..."_

Lestrade's voice was background noise. His thoughts were racing.

___He's alive, he's alive, he's alive._

Suddenly the screen went black. Anderson gapped at his laptop.

No, no, no.

The air was being squeezed right out of him. His hands were shaking. The walls were closing in. It was like everything had just stopped.

He became hysterical, face red with anger and guilt. The loud thud of the laptop against the wall drowned out Lestrade's voice.

_"I'm starting to really worry about you…"_


End file.
